


Funhouse Mirror

by FishLeather



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Betaed, Gen, Mistaken Identity, Paranoia, Sherlock Whump, but they're not really doing a good job at making themselves look non-murderous, cokehead sherlock, framed winchesters, set in summer 2014, small chance of being expanded on, superlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25848337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishLeather/pseuds/FishLeather
Summary: Two investigations came to a screeching halt in the middle of a disused office space. For a frozen moment, each pair sized up the other.Dean was the first to speak up, not addressing the intruders, but not breaking eye contact either. "Do you smell that?"Sam glanced at the two suspects, before nodding. After a lifetime on the road chasing everything from cannibals to minor deities, cologne couldn't hide the trace scent unique to living around corpses. Not from the Winchesters, at least.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	Funhouse Mirror

Distant muttering, two sets of footsteps, a torch beam swept between upturned desks and tables. Something about this place was creepy, but a 'funny feeling' wasn't going to deter either of them. There were no signs of recent squatting. A more artistic man might've said it looked like a giant hand knocked over everything in the building, and tore the pipes and wire from the walls. But neither of them felt artistic at the moment. The further outside the city, the less that manic energy kept up with its demands. The harder it was to refuel. Neither of them said it. It wasn't the thing to bring up. Not now.

On the other side of the building, there was silence, two shadows creeping in the dark, and a hand signal at each corner. This kind of case was a call for discretion. Outside of the 'states, they were at a disadvantage. To even the odds, they had to work as a team, and shove every bit of doubt into a dark closet, at least for now. 

The light started glinting off broken glass through the open doorway, just near enough that the other duo's full-on bickering could briefly be understood-- snatches of words including: 'finally-- dangerous-- too long-- careful-- tedious-- git.' They were getting closer.

On the one hand, it would be safer to hide, but it sounded like only two people. Maybe it would be simpler to make an impression. For all the brothers knew, this could be a lair. Backing yourself into a corner, especially in an unfamiliar environment, could be a big mistake. On the other hand, they didn't have to be stupid about it. After a shared look, both brothers rearranged their packs for easier access. Not arming themselves immediately, but preparing for a quick-draw.

Two investigations came to a screeching halt in the middle of a disused office space. For a frozen moment, each pair sized up the other. 

Dean was the first to speak up, not addressing the intruders, but not breaking eye contact either. "Do you smell that?" 

Sam glanced at the two suspects, before nodding. After a lifetime on the road chasing everything from cannibals to minor deities, cologne couldn't hide the trace scent unique to living around corpses. Not from the Winchesters, at least.

The strangers hadn't moved, but the short one looked ready to try something. The taller one gave both brothers an odd look. Calculating.

Wanting to avoid a Mexican standoff, Sam tried for politeness. He made a placating hand gesture. "We were wondering if you might have any information regarding the missing--"

The tall one ignored Sam, and stepped away from his companion to crowd Dean and unleash a barrage of observations. "Dropout. Vigilante. Army-like upbringing, unstable childhood featuring no less than ten different moves, single parent, likely the father judging by the level of ab--"

All hell broke loose.

Two guns appeared, one, a shotgun expertly drawn from within Dean's casually half-zipped bag to point at the chest of the definitely-not-a-human; the other, surprisingly, a handgun from the back of the short guy's jeans. Since when did _anyone_ in this country have a gun? The short guy pointed it at Sam, probably because Dean was too close to his possibly-a-monster pal, who actually seemed to be at a loss for what was happening. 

Sherlock unavoidably noticed the shotgun about an arm's length from his chest, but knew that even with excellent reaction time, John couldn't have drawn his own gun in reaction to that threat. Something had John's attention, and it was absolutely killing Sherlock that he hadn't seen it first. He turned back to face his friend, not bothering to keep an eye on the maniac threatening him. Either he'd shoot or he wouldn't, but it was more likely that he'd do it when Sherlock was looking. Hopefully. "John, what are you doing?"

Without moving the gun, John made eye contact with Sherlock. "They're serial killers. Mass murderers, actually. Didn't recognize them until you started reconstructing the headlines from scratch, they were front page news while you were dead." Looking back at the mass murderers, he realized his error in the way both brothers shifted stance. Of course. They were insane 'monster hunters', so someone coming back from the dead would make an excellent excuse to put them back in the ground. "I mean--"

"What the hell is he?" Dean demanded, wracking his brain to figure out what he was aiming at. Something that was either reanimated or could fake its death, either a cannibal or something that hung around dead bodies for other reasons, and some kind of mind reader. He could practically feel the pages of dad's journal, as he sped through possibilities. Rugaru, vampire, kitsune, ghoul, wendigo-- nothing came close to matching. Shit. What if this was something new? He'd always hated those.

"I think there's been a misunderstanding..." Sam tried to argue, message unhelped by the fact that he'd drawn a knife from his own bag. He looked between his brother and the guy with a handgun-- John, apparently-- unsure which was going to snap first. The guy Dean was aiming at looked less threatening by the minute, and more like he was going to pass out. He was pale as paper, and looked dressed for a snowstorm when it was currently almost June.

Sherlock, the only one left unarmed, floundered, taking a step backward. He'd kept decently up-to-date on London's crime while he was away, but hadn't bothered to read any international reports. He cursed at himself to think faster.

They'd asked what he was, which could have meant weather he was a cop, but not with how they reacted to the claim that he'd died. They obviously hadn't heard of him, but instead of calling John crazy for believing in the undead, they reacted as if Sherlock was truly back from the grave. Both of them, clearly brothers, had a belief in supernatural beings that was firmer than should be possible for anyone with a firearm, and the one wielding the knife had a partial college education. He decided to stall for time. Appeasement! Go along with the charade, and they'd surely leave an opening. "What do I look like? A vampire?"

"Sherlock, you can't be serious!" John had had quite enough banter with murderers for a lifetime.

Sam had an epiphany, and suddenly pointed at John with the end of the blade, though the man was too far to really threaten with it. "Dean, I think it's him." 

After all, John looked sturdier, slightly older, and was unnaturally calm.

Sherlock looked pale and wan, was wearing heavier clothing, and didn't have a weapon. He was taller, but also leaner, and seemed to be running on adrenaline, ticking all the boxes to indicate something nasty was going on.

There was something almost familiar about the gaze that turned on John, but it was all... wrong. From both sides, it was either like they were 'undressing him' with their eyes, or like they were trying to imagine vivisecting him. They were trying to deduce something, but whatever it was, neither man was saying it out loud. Due to the distraction, Sherlock was inching back towards the door, looking like hell. John resisted the urge to tell him to take better care of himself-- now was not the time.

Having been able to retreat back towards John as soon as Dean had stopped aiming at him, Sherlock's voice broke the icy silence. "You two are hunting something. Not someone, but some... thing." The confidence was there, but something in his voice sounded bitterly weak. 

The standoff was starting to burn through the last of his energy. He hadn't slept in two days, and would consider murder (though not commit it) for some water or much more preferably some cocaine, not to mention the chill that had settled deep in his bones that morning, probably something he caught at the end of the last case. Two days. How was he this tired after only two days? John looked fine! He looked... fine. Sherlock's eyes widened. "John's a person. A human, I mean. I mean, we're both people. Not... anything else. He doesn't-- didn't do this to me."

Dean gave him a withering look. "Wow. That was really convincing. Next I'm guessing you're going to say you have a family, or something? You look like shit, and I'm saying he looks like he did it."

Throwing his eggs into one basket, Sherlock yanked up one of his sleeves, showing the trackmarks. "I am-- no-- I mean-- I'm on coke, well, not right now but I was, that's why I'm-- he looks better, he doesn't use-- I use it to think faster. It's chemistry. Normal. Well, illegal, but you're not-- you're murderers, or not, but-- you don't care about crime, only monsters," he tried to stand up straighter as the room tilted, and wondered when he'd started shivering. He stomped on the urge to grin, because it really was hilarious that this time his completely under control habit would be the thing to get them _out_ of trouble. Hopefully.


End file.
